


Vecpio Week 2020

by naivesilver



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics), Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection, Parenthood, Vecpio Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naivesilver/pseuds/naivesilver
Summary: All my works for the 2020 round of Vecpio Week, originally posted on Tumblr.Day 1 - MusicDay 2 - Pay DayDay 3 - VacationDay 4 - NightlifeDay 5 - MorningDay 6&7 - Blackout + AU
Relationships: Charmy Bee & Espio the Chameleon, Charmy Bee & Vector the Crocodile, Espio the Chameleon/Vector the Crocodile
Kudos: 20





	1. Day 1 - Music

“Hey, Es, what’s wrong?”

Espio blinks, looking up from the piece of paper he’s been staring at for the past five minutes. Vector is standing in front of him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, the very picture of perplexity.

“Nothing. Why are you asking?”

Vector shrugs. “You look stressed.”

He is, as usual, terribly blunt and not nearly as smooth in his attempts to comfort someone as he thinks he is. It would be hilarious if it didn’t send through Espio a spike of irritation that he struggles to quell down. “I’m not stressed” he mutters, crumpling up the notebook page he was trying to do some accounting on and tossing it aside.

That’s a lie if he’s ever told one, and he’s pretty sure Vector knows that, but what they both know is _why_ he’s so stressed, and it’s hardly something that can be fixed by talking about it.

Espio has always considered himself a level-headed, pragmatic chameleon, so he’s not in the habit of lying to himself, and at this point he can’t ignore that their situation looks dire, at the very least. They’re running out of money, which isn’t _new_ per se but is rarely a comforting thing to know, and they haven’t had a lead on a case or a new case in ages, so it’s improbable that they’ll be out of it anytime soon.

And then there’s Charmy, who not only sent their expenses through the roof, but also is even more a nuisance than they’d expected him to be. Anything he does, be it eating or playing or screaming for attention, he does it loudly. Even as they speak the bee’s trying to stuff something in his mouth, with a sucking, slobbering noise that’s grating on Espio’s nerves. The only thing he craves more than a new paycheck is a minute of complete silence.

Not that he regrets taking in the kid, or opening the agency, or any of that. If nothing else, they’re pretty much the only ideas of Vector he’s followed that haven’t ended in utter disaster. He’s happy. He should be happy.

It’s just that, well. He’s never had such a hard time keeping his spirits up. There’s always a nagging thought at the back of his brain, reminding him of the hundreds of ways things could go to hell if they don’t find a solution fast. Even meditating has grown difficult, and not just because it tends to be interrupted by a baby wailing for food. His worries creep in and nothing he does can shake them off, even after all those years he’s spent learning how to clear his mind from stuff like that.

He’s spaced out again. Great. Now Vector will have yet another reason to believe he’s losing his mind and fret and try to solve the issue in some creative and yet decidedly unhelpful way. There might be a valuable lesson to learn there, but Espio is too tired to decide whether it’s “let your partner help when you’re struggling” or “never let anyone see you lose control ever again”, and it’s not like one is in the mood for absorbing any kind of lesson when they’re making an effort not to freak out, so…

He’s snapped out of his reverie once more by the feeling of something being slipped over his ears. For a few moments he’s too stunned to say anything, because those are Vector’s headphones the crocodile has taken off and given to him, and the thought alone is so confusing that Espio struggles to process it.

It’s not that he’s never listened to Vector’s music. In fact, Espio has heard enough of it for a lifetime and then some, because Vector is nothing if not enthusiastic about sharing his passions. He has yet to understand how anyone might listen to some of those songs willingly, because to him they’re nothing but a cacophony of clashing sounds, but it’s not as if he’s banned it from the house.

He’d thought he’d made it clear, though, that Vector is to keep it for himself (and for Charmy, because whatever genre that stuff ascribes in, it gets the kid to sleep in no time, and while Espio is not above threatening his boyfriend at knifepoint to get him to lower the volume when Charmy’s got the headphones on, he’s not so stupid as to forbid anything that can knock a toddler bee out for good). The crocodile hasn’t tried to force him to listen to that garbage in ages, so why now, of all days?

It seems he’s in for a day of surprises, though. Before Espio can protest, Vector fiddles with the tape player and music fills his ears, leaving him shocked once again.

It’s…not what Vector usually listens to. It’s slower, for a start, quieter, with no voices screaming over one another. Espio can’t recognize the instruments, nor the tune, but it flows in a way that catches his attention, almost mesmerizing after what he’d expected to hear in its place. It reminds him, oddly, of a lullaby, or of some tunes from his homeland, from when he was way, way younger.

“Been trying to find something you may like for a while now” Vector says, trying and failing to pretend that whatever’s going on is not that big of a deal. “The album says it’s supposed to be relaxing music. I don’t know if it’s your style, but you looked like you needed it.”

“It’s…it’s nice” Espio replies.

To be honest, he’s not sure he can judge the quality of the music right now, when there’s so much going on behind it. If he were meaner than he is, or even just less exhausted, maybe he’d berate Vector for wasting time on a thing like that when they’re supposed to be looking for paying jobs. He should be upset - he should say something more, at the very least.

As it stands, though, the gesture causes something inside him to break. It’s as if he were made of clay, only needing the gentlest of pushes to be cracked and let fresh air filter in. His tongue feels like clay too, thick inside his mouth: as much as he wants to, he can’t force the words to come out, and he just sits there, dumbfounded, listening to a song he doesn’t know the name of roll through his brain.

Vector looks like he knows it, though. He smiles his trademark grin and sits beside Espio, wrapping an arm around the chameleon’s shoulders.

“Come on, Esp, it’s gonna be alright” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “We’re going through a rough patch, but we’ll get out of it, okay? We’re a team. That’s what we do.”

Espio breathes in. Breathes out. He doesn’t know if it’s Vector, or the physical contact, or the soft chant still filling his ears, but the rumble of thoughts in his mind seems to quiet down a little. Not to the point that he’s suddenly bursting with solutions to their problems, but enough to leave space for something slightly less pessimistic and just a tad more hopeful.

Vector goes on. If it’s because he senses he’s having success, or because he likes the sound of his own voice, Espio doesn’t know, but he’s not about to complain. He’s too grateful for that. “We’ll work it out together. You, me, and the little mite. Promise. On my honor as a detective.”

Espio snorts at that, and the crocodile lets out an indignant noise, even though he looks clearly pleased by the effect that he’s having. “Oh, come on. What will be of this agency, if no one’s respecting its boss?”

But his voice grows softer a moment later, and he tugs Espio closer. "We’re gonna make it. We are. Alright?”

“Alright” Espio whispers, closing his eyes and leaning into the embrace. He’s not sure he can stop worrying anytime soon, but the warm, cozy feeling of being cradled close to someone else and the lull of the music covering anything that’s not Vector’s voice form a small, safe bubble, one he’s not about to burst until he can face the day head on. For a minute, he can allow himself to relax.

“Thank you.”


	2. Day 2 - Pay Day

There is, Espio has found over the years, a thin fine line between everyday bickering and pay day bantering, and the difference lays entirely in just how good his mood is when he has to put up with Vector’s bullshit.

Getting paid is not a common occurrence for them, given that even when they do have jobs they generally end up either working for free out of the good of their hearts or getting tricked by supervillains who need their services. Vector is elated when it actually happens, and terribly smug about it too, since he sees it as a confirmation of his leading and bartering abilities - and Espio is sufficiently giddy as well, because having money takes a weight off both their shoulders. If nothing else, it makes trading barbs back and forth more enjoyable, because balancing Vector’s dreams of grandeur with more concrete necessities like rent or the floorboard that threatens to give way when they step on it again is easier when they actually have the means to afford at least some of those things.

Which means that the day Vector tries to snatch their paycheck for a case regarding a stolen boat out of Espio’s hands, the chameleon does hold it further away, but it’s a game as much as it is a genuine need to keep Vector from blowing all their money on something futile.

“Get off” he says, mock-offence in his voice. “You’re not getting anywhere near this. We’ve got bills to pay.”

“Come _on_ , Espio” Vector croons, hands clasped in front of himself as though in prayer. “We gotta celebrate! Just a little!”

“I don’t trust you and your _celebrations_.” Espio pretends to check inside the envelope, even if he’s done so four times already since they got paid, as not to see the crocodile’s attempt at making puppy eyes at him. “The last time you tried to buy cake and Charmy got to it before we could stop him. I’m not dealing with him on a sugar high ever again.”

Vector, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “Yeah, alright. No cake. But still, we’ve got to do something! Something fun. You can’t say no to that.”

“We can do something fun. Something cheap. _After_ I’ve paid the bills.”

Vector lets out an exasperated noise and steps even closer, hovering over in a parody of a menacing stance. “Give me that thing.”

A small, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of Espio’s mouth. “Come and get it yourself.”

He expects Vector to grab at the envelope, then, and start a game of cat and mouse that is likely to end up with him keeping a hold on the money but relenting on some kind of celebratory meal. He’s almost eager to see it happen, and if that’s not a testament of his good mood, probably nothing is.

He doesn’t expect Vector to grab _him,_ though _._

Using only one hand, the crocodile lifts him bodily off the floor, and Espio, despite himself, yelps in outrage and kicks at his arm, struggling to get out of his hold. 

“Put me down” he says in the end, trying to level Vector with a pointed stare. He’s more annoyed than surprised, really, because Vector has the strength of an ox as well as the delicacy of one, and he enjoys putting both to use on a daily basis, but. Seriously. That’s not a way Espio will let himself be treated.

Vector doesn’t put him down. Instead, he puts up a wolfish grin and holds out his other hand, palm up. “Pay up and I’ll let you go.”

Espio folds his hands behind his back like a misbehaving child and only raises an eyebrow at him. “Make me.”

The kiss he expects, at least.

He leans into it happily enough, because that’s a celebration of its own, too. But he only pretends to be distracted, because he knows how this dance goes, and Vector is way less subtle and way more predictable than he believes himself to be.

As if on cue, he feels the envelope slip from his fingers, and feigns shock when Vector waves it in front of him, roaring with laughter. “Got you! Finally!”

Espio rolls his eyes, smiling indulgently. “Of course you did.”

Then he vanishes in the blink of an eye, and then he ignores Vector’s protests in favor of slipping out of his grasp, stealing the paycheck back and clambering down on the floor, effectively resuming the chase.

Yes, getting paid is good, Espio can’t disagree.

It’s nothing, though, compared to what comes after.


	3. Day 3 - Vacation

“Do you think we ought to tell him to stay away from the water?” 

Vector cracks an eye open. “What?”

Honestly, he hopes that the matter at hand doesn’t require too much of his brain power. He was about to doze off, lulled by the sound of the waves crashing and by the warmth of the sand he’s lying on; he’s having a hard time even processing Espio’s question, half asleep as he already is.

Espio doesn’t repeat himself, though. He just raises both eyebrows and inclines his head towards the sea, so Vector has no choice to push himself to a sitting position, groaning, and look at whatever is going on.

The beach they’re in is almost empty, with only a couple other people and their kids wandering around. To call it a beach is perhaps an exaggeration, to be honest - in truth it’s more of a glorified stretch of dirty sand, stones and pebbles overlooking the sea, where the tide doesn’t bring in seashells but rubbish and the occasional piece of algae. No one in their right mind would choose it over the prettier, more expensive beaches further down the coast, except someone as penniless as the Chaotix are.

No one would walk down to it _now_ , especially, not when the war has been over for such a short time. Everyone is still rebuilding and counting their losses, and the three of them aren’t any different in that regard. If anything, between rallying survivors for the Resistance, proper fighting and cleaning up the mess afterwards, they’ve been busier than most people, with barely a moment of respite.

The need for a break is, actually, the main reason why they’re on the beach now, even if said break is nothing more than a couple hours spent at the seaside. Surely no one can begrudge them that, not with all the hard work they’ve been putting in. Besides, though it’s not summer yet and therefore no one’s wading through the water, the sun is shining bright, and he and Espio are cold-blooded reptiles; they surely need to soak in the sunlight to keep their health up, or at least, that’s the official excuse they’re planning to use if they meet anyone of their friends.

Charmy is not roasting under the sun beside them, though, and that’s what Espio directed his attention towards. Instead, Charmy is…Vector isn’t even sure how to call it. Not swimming, because the kid never gets more than knee-deep in the water; rather, he waits for the small waves to crash lazily at his feet, and then he darts back towards dry land, shrieking with laughter. The cycle repeats endlessly, with Charmy returning to dip his feet in the sea only to run away again, as if the tide were a monster he has to escape from, seemingly never tiring of doing the same thing on a loop.

It’s a perplexing enough game, but so are most of the the kid’s games. Espio’s comment seems even less reasonable now that Vector has seen what it referred to. “Nah” he replies after a moment. “ Why should we? He’s not even causing us trouble, for once.”

Espio snorts, but the frown doesn’t leave his face. “Have you taught him how to swim? Because I haven’t, and I don’t remember anyone else bothering.”

Ah, so that’s what it is. It’s his mother hen instinct coming out swinging. “He’s not even swimming! Look, the sea’s basically flat. Even if he falls in, I’ve got plenty of time to get him out before he drowns. I’m a great swimmer, if you’d forgotten.”

“As you say.” Espio doesn’t push the matter further, opting instead for laying down on his belly, his head resting on his arms.

Even so, though, he’s facing the sea, and his eyes never leave Charmy, watching the kid like a hawk.

Vector watches _him_ instead, frowning all the while. He’s pretty sure he’s missing something here, but he doesn’t know what it could possibly be, casting a shadow on such a nice afternoon.

It’s true that the war has taken a toll on all of them. Even if they’ve defeated Eggman, it’s hard to get used to such a threat looming over their heads. The sea itself is likely still full of ash and debris, and perhaps that’s why Charmy’s staying out of it, freezing temperature of the water aside. Traces of the fighting mar every corner of the city, after all, be them fallen buildings or handmade posters calling for lost relatives to be found.

They were lucky, on that sense, though. He and Espio both know that, and Charmy as well, though he’s too young to realize the extent of it. They’ve been hurt and scarred more than once, but at the end of the day they always came back to the cramped storage-room-turned-emergency-bedroom in the Resistance base, with its even more cramped bed and the cot that Charmy kept ignoring in favor of crawling in between them. Even their house is still standing, aside from a hole in a wall they’ll fix once they’re done rebuilding other people’s homes. They made it. They’re alive.

There were a few close calls, of course, more than they’d have liked, but there always are, when one gets involved in saving the world as often as they do. Considering it was a bloody war and not the usual skirmish with a robot that takes Sonic five minutes to solve, it’s a miracle they’re still more or less hale and whole. It could have been any of them razed to the ground by that guy with the mask, or trampled by Eggman’s robots, or locked up and tortured as it’s rumored Sonic was.

If after surviving all of that they were to lose Charmy by drowning, it would be…well, a very dark joke on life’s part. Also a damn magic trick, since it’s literally impossible for it to happen. The kid is only a couple feet from them, to the point that he keeps splashing them with damp sand as he runs back and forth. If he so wanted, Vector could reach out and snatch him away before he goes any deeper than the inch or so of water he’s currently kicking around in.

So either Vector’s really missing something, like a tsunami warning on the morning weather forecast, or Espio’s been thinking too much again, and that’s never a good sign. 

Espio is a worrier, that’s a given. Vector will begrudgingly grant him some useful idea now and then, but mostly, what he does is nitpicking perfectly good plans and think about things that might never actually happen. Sometimes it’s funny, because there’s nothing more hilarious - more _endearing_ than watching him fuss and get worked up over nothing, but there are times where Espio gets stuck in his own brain, going in circles around stuff that no one else would deign of a second thought. 

If that’s the case, and he’s still thinking about the war, ruminating about what sort of bad stuff could happen to Charmy, then Vector’s duty is to help him. That’s his role, usually, as boss, as partner, as a sensible person who has no intention to spend his life brooding: he gets Espio out of his own head, even if he has to drag him out kicking and screaming. 

Most people would probably try to use words right now, to comfort and reassure, but Vector has always been one for more proactive solutions, so he takes off his shoes, drops them next to Charmy’s, and then gets up with a grunt that draws Espio’s attention.

The chameleon looks at him with a puzzled look on his face. “Where are you going?”

Vector gives him a wide grin. “To keep the brat from drowning. You coming?”

Espio stares at him for a moment, wide eyed. Then he smiles, small and barely there, but genuine, which is exactly what Vector wanted. “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Vector nods, starting off towards Charmy. If Espio prefers to stay behind and watch, then so be it, as long as what he sees doesn’t remind him of the war, or work, or whatever impending doom he might be picturing. Vector himself is, after all, devilishly handsome to watch, even as he’s wading through wet sand to play with a little kid. 

Besides, it’s not as if there were another war coming for them, right? They’re safe. They’re gonna be okay, all three of them.

As long as Charmy stops long enough to tell him just exactly what kind of game they’re playing, that is


	4. Day 4 - Nightlife

Sometimes, Vector has trouble sleeping at night.

It’s not because he spends his days lazing around, as _someone_ in his life might say. Leading a successful agency like theirs is no joke, and if it were for him, he’d get plenty of rest by day _and_ by night.

No, it’s more that he and his team have seen a handful of things that are bound to leave a mark, between robots and mad scientists and otherworldly horrors. A few nightmares are nothing one wouldn’t expect, as are random bouts of insomnia now and then. The catch is pretending to be just fine the morning after, because his cool, shining personality is a carefully cultivated facade as much as a gift of nature.

He’s gotten pretty good at it, at this point - practice makes perfect, as they say. There are days where he just can’t conjure up the strength, though, because it’s not exactly fun to just lay there in the dark, listening as Charmy snores and Espio mutters in his sleep. Sometimes he can’t scrape even a minute of sleep, and the hours seem to stretch infinitely in front of him, and by the time the sun rises he’s pissed off enough that his bad mood infects the whole agency. 

It’s better when he’s got company, but that’s because nearly everything is, especially when that company is Espio. Vector’d rather his partner got some sleep, but Espio is in no better shape than him, so every now and then they’ll find themselves awake at the same time and waste the night talking, whispering things that they’d never dare say in the light of day. Those nights are good nights, because they feel private, personal, something that will never escape the walls of their room.

And then, well. Then there is the ace up Vector’s sleeve, the little secret he has yet to tell anybody of.

Truth is, sometimes he wakes up, clawing at the sheets and gasping for breath, and Espio is not there. And once he’s squashed down the surge of panic he won’t admit of feeling every time, that’s when the fun begins.

First, Vector checks on Charmy, because the last thing they need once morning comes is a cranky, hyperactive bee who got woken up by their antics. Only after he makes his way to the door, or the window, or whatever works best as front seat for the show.

That’s what Espio puts up, when he wakes up before Vector does. A show. A show he believes to be without an audience, because Vector can be quiet when it really matters, and he’s never gotten himself caught. If anything, the thrill of being where he shouldn’t only adds to the appeal of it, even if he’s breaking no rules, and it _is_ his house, too.

His backyard, technically, or the square foot of raggedy grass they’ve claimed as such, because that’s where Espio goes through his ninja training religiously, as if preparing for a test. There’s no light but moonlight, usually, and it’s a wonder he can ever see what he’s doing (Vector has to squint to see anything more often than not, and it’s _not_ because he’s getting old) but it doesn’t seem to deter him in any way. Perhaps at this point he’s done it enough times that he could go through it blindfolded, like the martial arts prodigies in those B-list movies Charmy watches sometimes.

Besides, it’s always the same thing. Vector doesn’t remember when it started, when he stopped frantically searching for Espio in the middle of the night and instead realized the chameleon had found himself a more productive way to wait for morning to come. He doesn’t remember, but it’s been a while since the first night, and the routine hasn’t changed a bit in the meantime.

The weapons come first. Some are familiar, like the ninja stars that land with soft thuds in the same wooden stump Espio throws them at when he trains in daylight, some less so, blades Vector hasn’t seen him use in a long time and yet he handles with practiced care. Then a series of fighting stances, attacks against an invisible foe, kicks and punches and backhanded slashes that always hit their mark. 

To anyone else watching, perhaps it would appear threatening. The atmosphere certainly works in Espio’s favor in that sense; there’s not much scarier than such a skilled fighter moving in and out of the night’s shadow, so quick and silent that his feet seem to barely graze the grass. It looks like a dance, if dancing included potentially murderous weapons.

Vector’s got nothing to fear from Espio, though, and to him, it’s nothing short of hypnotic. The way the chameleon’s back arches, his head tipped back and his eyes closed in the split second before he strikes, is so alluring that Vector’s breath nearly always itches in his throat. There is a grace to Espio’s movements, to his jumps and kicks and even the roll of his wrist as he readjusts his hold on a knife, that no one gets to witness when they’re fighting Eggman or the likes, between the sheer chaos of it and the fact that he spends half their battles invisible. It feels almost like a privilege, to have such a spectacle right outside one’s window.

Of course, it can’t last forever. At some point Espio stops in his tracks, bowing in deference to an adversary that isn’t there before gathering his stuff, and Vector knows that he has to hurry back to bed and fake being asleep before he gets caught. 

He feels vaguely guilty, keeping it a secret. He should ask, he ought to have asked already by now, if it’s Espio’s perfectionist side that has him training at two or three in the morning, or if the exercise lets him unwind, distracts him enough from his thoughts that he can go back to sleep. Perhaps Espio would stop, knowing he has an audience, but perhaps he might show off a bit more because of it, and there’s nothing Vector’d like to see more.

He’s almost started that conversation a hundred times already. But it’s such a small, reassuring thing to have all to himself, that he can’t bring himself to give up on it. He’s grown used to waiting for Espio to slide under the covers and curl against his back, skin cold from the night breeze in a way that should be unpleasant and yet has become familiar, almost welcome; in fact, he expects it by now, and he feels nearly relieved when it happens, as stupid as it sounds.

 _Next time I’ll tell him,_ Vector thinks every time, feigning sleep even as his partner slides an arm around him.

And then he falls asleep for real, content and relaxed at last, and he forgets all about it until it happens.


	5. Day 5 - Morning

Some days begin like this: Vector has yet to open his eyes, and somebody is already yelling. 

It’s not Espio, usually, because Espio rarely raises his voice, and if he does he sure as hell doesn’t start until they’ve all had their breakfast. Charmy has no such qualms, nor does he do anything by half - either he has to be dragged bodily out of bed or he wakes at the break of dawn and starts clamoring for attention. Or breakfast. Or for them to get up and start investigating whatever case they got assigned for the day. The kid never seems to run out of reasons to ruin their sleeping schedule, and he’s not afraid to get his voice an octave shy of ultrasound level when they’re not quick enough on the uptake.

They’re lucky he’s got wings and a tendency to fly over their heads as he speaks: most kids wake their parental figures up by bouncing on the bed, and _that_ might be the last straw even for Vector’s long-lasting patience.

“If you don’t shut your mouth right now I’m tossing you out the window” he warns anyway, trying to drown out the noise by smashing the pillow on his face.

Charmy doesn’t, in fact, shut his mouth, but that’s probably because it’s not a very effective threat to use against him. Mostly because Vector has never acted on it, but also, well. As he said. The boy’s got wings. He’d probably fly back in and double the volume.

“Charmy, shut _up_ ” Espio groans, face evenly split between plotting murder for the sake of peace and the grumpy, scrunched up expression of a sleepy little kid.

He looks absolutely adorable, but Vector never tells him, because the last time he tried to do so he learned via elbow in the gut that that sort of compliments is only welcome after ten in the morning.

“But I’m hungry” Charmy whines, as if they were of the habit of starving him instead of feeding him better than anyone else in the house.

He does lower his voice, though, because apparently Espio’s scolding has a magic that Vector’s doesn’t.

“If you calm down a bit Vector’s gonna come and help you get your breakfast” the chameleon replies, and Vector barely has the time to recover from the shock and start protesting before Espio rolls to face the other way, blind and deaf to any complaint, and Charmy starts tugging at his hand.

“Traitor” Vector mutters.

But he’s got no choice, apparently, because the whole team is pitted against him, so he climbs out of bed and lets the bee drag him towards the kitchen, hoping he’ll find some coffee that’ll help him get his morning started.

  
Some days begin like this, too: Espio wakes up, long before the others, and goes to make himself some tea.

He purposefully steps on the cracking floorboard near Charmy’s bed so that the kid will start waking up, but for the rest he’s deadly silent, padding barefoot towards the kitchen. It’s a risk, considering the kind of stuff that usually litters their floor, ranging from discarded toy to whatever dangerous creature has crashed through the agency in the past week, but having to thread carefully is a small price to pay if it means never breaking the quiet stillness of the house.

Even after he’s poured the tea Espio bides his time, sipping slowly, carefully, enjoying what will probably be the only minutes of silence he’ll get throughout the day. He makes coffee, too, gets the milk and the cheap sugary chocolate monstrosity that passes for kids’ cereals out, and only after he goes back to the bedroom, mug still in hand.

As predicted, Charmy has rolled off his bed and onto theirs, curling in the warm spot Espio left vacant. The chameleon gently pushes him aside, freeing enough space to sit down beside him, and the kid whines, barely conscious, before wrapping his arms around Espio’s body and faceplanting right into Espio’s side, fast asleep once again.

Espio focuses on the warm drink in his hands, thinking idly about nothing at all. He knows that at some point Vector will wake up and blindly reach for him, for the mug, and Espio will have to tell him that it’s tea, that coffee is in the kitchen, and then watch him mumble some incoherent complaint and stumble towards his dose of caffeine; or the crocodile will demand, groggily, for a good morning kiss, and Charmy will be jostled by them moving and come to some sort of lucidity, and Vector will carry him to the kitchen as well, tossed over his shoulder like a half-asleep-kid-sized sack of potatoes.

A million other things might happen, in the span of the next few hours. But for now, Espio keeps stroking Charmy’s head to soothe him, knows that Vector is right there at finger’s reach, and he is content, as he waits for their morning routine to start.


	6. Day 6+7 - Blackout+AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU. Spoilers for the Sonic IDW Comics.

They say the day you lose your soulmate, your world goes back to grey, as it was before the first meeting.

Espio knows better, now, or perhaps he’s just thinking too much about the choice of words at play. Perhaps by _losing_ they only mean death, and Vector is not dead.

Not yet, at least.

The point stands, though. Stories always seem to gloss over the finer details of what finding your soulmate is really like, probably as not to scare away all those children who are still eager to meet their other half. They stick to the broader spectrum – you’re born, you only see shades of grey; you meet your soulmate, you start seeing colours, and everything in your life suddenly falls into place.

Your soulmate dies, you’re back to square one.

Espio should have known it was a gross oversimplification from the beginning, because there was no sudden moment of clarity, the day he first saw Vector. He doesn’t remember any _oh, this is it_ when he met that other boy’s gaze in a downtown alley that probably reeked of rotten trash, only the air being knocked out of his lungs and the blinding shock of the colours rushing in where first everything had been grey and white and dull. Mostly, above all, he remembers the overwhelming need to escape, to run away from whatever was happening to him.

It’s funny, in a way. If he’d run then, he wouldn’t be here now, having to fight the urge to rush at Vector’s side. He would have lost his soulmate, but he would have saved himself the pain, and a good handful of rough moments down the line, too.

He doesn’t know if that’s a bargain he wouldn’t take right now, as he falls to his knees watching Vector drag Charmy towards the mass of infected bodies inside the bunker. In the split second before the doors close behind them, Espio would rewind it all, erase it like markings on a blackboard.

Still. He didn’t run, and he can’t change the past. And as such, he’s stuck here, in this very moment, and all his memories – the good ones, the bad ones, the weird ones he can’t quite place – are in vivid colour.

That first conversation with Vector, stilted and awkward, and golden crocodile’s eyes. Finding Charmy, vibrant yellow and black and screaming as babies ought to. The house as it was before the war, as it probably isn’t anymore, whole and safe and cheap wood brown. The fighting itself, grey like the smoke and red like the injuries that have long since scabbed.

Love is red, too. It’s a naïve fancy, to believe that immaterial things could be of any shade, but Espio thinks he can afford being idealistic, for once, and for him, love is getting hurt not long after they found each other and watching the blood run down his arm and drip from his fingers, sticky and wet and red. It’s Vector patching him up, grumbling under his breath, and then taking his face in one hand and kissing him soundly, thumb stroking his cheek.

The kiss and the blood and the stinging pain in his arm all mix up, muddled together and impossible to separate, but Espio wouldn’t mind taking some pain if it meant having his soulmate back. Pain would be worth it, if it were red and not grey.

Here’s the truth, he wants to scream at all those stories: losing a soulmate doesn’t always mean death. Sometimes it’s much, much worse, the spread of a virus they never had expected to come their way, and when it touches your other half, the world doesn’t go back to the shades of grey it had before. Instead it turns a dark, brassy hue, more black than grey, with a metallic tinge that sends shivers down Espio’s spine. If he had to find a comparison, he’d say it looks the way the agency did when they had a power shortage and whatever emergency source of light they found would cast weird shadows on the walls, draining the colour from the furniture around them and leaving only spots of white in a sea of black.

It’s ironic that Vector’s sacrifice would cause a blackout, as if he’d blown off the money to pay electricity bills again, but Espio can’t bring himself to laugh, no more than he can scream, because his breath gets caught in his throat and

So that’s what happens, in the end: stories and reality blend together, and there’s no happy ending in sight. Vector grins, and meets his eyes, and suddenly Espio’s back where he began – he can’t breathe, and he can’t run, and his knees hit the cold metallic floor so hard they will probably bruise later.

The doors slid to a close, after, and Espio knows it’s over, because everything – the escape pod, the sky, Amy’s hands as she tries to get him to move – everything is grey, a grey so dark he feels he’s going to be sick, and it’s nothing like he remembers the world before Vector.

So, yeah. He knows better than those fairy tales.

He just wishes it could help him find some solace from the mind-numbing pain he feels in his chest.


End file.
